


a world that I shall know

by yaseanne



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Rebuilding, Romance, braiding, entirely too much architecture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaseanne/pseuds/yaseanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a promt on the kink meme:</p><p>Bofur to invites Bilbo to live with him in Erebor now that the quest is done. It starts out as a friendly request, until they can find a suitable spot to build a Hobbit hole for him in the vicinity, but as time goes on they slowly start to develop stronger feelings for one another. All the while dealing with their grief over their lost companions, and what might have been had everyone survived. Frodo comes to live with Bilbo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a world that I shall know

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [a world that I shall know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/653811) by [avivatang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avivatang/pseuds/avivatang)



> the prompt is [here](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1716678#t1716678). 
> 
> I've taken some liberties with the timeline. Frodo is born in 2968, and the story takes place in 2941. I deleted 40 years so Frodo is now 13 and arrives just after his parents died. I may have taken liberties with some other things - I hope any mistakes are not too jarring.

Most of the rooms and chambers in Erebor are in dire need of repair. Those closest to the main hall have been stripped of their decorations rather violently, doorways crumbled and walls slashed.

Some of the staircases have cracked, and the dwarves set out to repair them quickly. A kitchen is rebuilt and furnished and rooms on the lower levels hastily converted into common sleeping rooms in case the weather turns on them. Bilbo helps where he can, cutting fabrics for Ori, measuring walls for Oin, squeezing into corners that Bofur can't on their explorations into the mountain.

They're still sleeping in tents, a fact that Bofur bemoans.

"There are fine rooms in Erebor that just need a fire to warm them," he says one night when they gather for dinner. "If we wait until last, we'll be stuck on the north side with no view to speak of."

"And if we settle now, before Dain himself, we'll be thrown out right quick," says Balin. No one objects after that, for Balin, seemingly having aged centuries after the battle, would be the first to have a right to rooms in the mountain.

 

It's another week before the first dwarves move in, and by now snow has started to fall onto the mountain in heavy flakes, covering the top just below the cloud line. They watch a small group of dwarves, among them Balin and Dwalin, enter the mountain with packs filled to bursting on their backs.

Bofur, who is standing to Bilbo's side, puts a hand on his shoulder.

"I've had a look at some of the rooms we've found yesterday," he confides. "Think I'll be moving in soon myself."

Bilbo just nods; he hasn't been assigned a room and he doubts he has the right to simply take one. Nevertheless, when the time comes he helps Bofur pack ("No, not the knives! Those go in last!", "Have you seen my tobacco?") and retreats back to the common room where he has set up his bedroll to escape the rain.

The next day, Bofur finds him when evening falls and beckons him.

"Come on, let me show you my place."

Bilbo's eyes widen as he takes in the dwarf's quarters. While small - a bedroom, a bath, a living room, and what must have once been a kitchen but for now still consist mainly of rubble - they must have been extraordinary once. The ceiling is high and vaulted and almost vanishes into shadows, the walls are dark stone decorated with plastering and the remains of tapestries. Patterns weave along the doorway arches, and shallow carvings run along the bottom near the ground.

"Come here, you have to see this," calls Bofur. Bilbo follows him through the living room - a stone table, two high-backed chairs, and walls inlaid with blue gems - onto a small balcony. There's a bench made of white stone, the perfect height for either hobbit of dwarf. It overlooks the woods to the west, cast by the setting sun into a reddish gold, and when he looks down he can see the camp in the ruins of Dale, dozens of feet below them. His own tent is down there somewhere, with his bedroll and all his belongings east of the mountains, and for the first time he's sad that his hobbit hole never offered a good view.

"That is impressive," he says.

At his side, Bofur is smiling.

"Bombur helped me pick the place, he's got the rooms a little to the north. Isn't that a pretty view?" He's staring at the woods, and the vague outline of the Misty Mountains beyond. Somewhere beyond them, hobbits are herding sheep and cows, and putting their children to bed. Bilbo sighs, and glances up quickly when he hears an answering sigh. Bofur's gaze has turned south, to the camp, and the remains of the battlefield.

"They would've liked the view," he whispers, and Bilbo doesn't have to ask. Fili, with his sharp eyes, and Kili, who would have picked a point far in the distance and set out to explore.

"'Course, they would've had better rooms - right below the royal chambers. If Thorin had..." he trails off, and Bilbo is suddenly overcome with the sharp pain of loss again. He reaches out blindly, catching Bofur's sleeve, and tugs until rough fingers grasp his hand and clasp it.

 

 

They don't return to the chambers until much later, after night has fallen and from far below a solemn song is echoing off the mountain.

"This is much nicer than my tent," offers Bilbo, trying to lighten the mood.

"We'll find you a place," replies Bofur. "How about a little further down, there's a couple of rooms that must've been a librarians. There's still scrolls and maps in there, and place for a bed."

"I don't know," says Bilbo. "I'm not sure I can stay somewhere so far off the ground." It's true; the view, while beautiful, has given him vertigo. To think that he would wake every morning and only see the blue sky through the window, with not even a tree in sight...

Bofur laughs. "Why don't we build you a hobbit hole. There's certainly enough builders around."

Bilbo laughs with him. "And when I leave, who's going to live in that hole? It'd be a shame to waste people's time like that."

"So don't leave," says Bofur simply. "Surely it's not so bad here?" Bilbo stares at him. Bofur winks.

-

The next day, he has dinner with Bifur, Bofur and Bombur in Bofur's new chambers. It's a boar Bifur found wandering the northern slope of the mountain, and they roast it in the remains of the kitchen. The dwarves have still not taken to green foods, but Bilbo has picked some herbs and made himself a salad to go with it, and Bombur has brought two big loaves of bread from the kitchens.

Bifur, who has so far admired Bofur's new rooms, addresses Bofur in Khuzdul. Bofur nods, and turns to Bilbo.

"We've found you a small place to stay, if you want. It's a few floors below this one, a bit smaller too, but it's got a kitchen." He looks hopeful.

It won't do to break his heart, thinks Bilbo. And besides, the nights are getting colder, and the common rooms are filled with strangers.

"I'd like to see them," he says.

 

Later, when they have finished and Bofur and Bilbo are sitting on the balcony, he says, in a small voice, "I don't know what to do."

Bofur remains silent.

"I mean, the mountain is reclaimed, many of the rooms are cleared. There's nothing for me to do here, I'm of no use to anyone." He takes a long drag on his pipe, startled when Bofur knocks it from his hand.

"Bilbo Baggins," he exclaims, "there's no need for you to be useful or work here. I'm- " Bilbo looks up - "we're happy you're here, with us. Though we can certainly use your talents," he finishes.

He looks upset at the thought of Bilbo leaving, and his voice takes an urgent tone.

"There's still much to do, and it'd be mad to travel back in winter. The roads are unsafe, the mountains even more so."

If he is entirely honest with himself, Bilbo is upset at the thought of leaving his friends as well. He'll have to go back to the Shire of course, he's a hobbit after all, but imagining his return to Bag End and the separation from the remaining members of the company sends a sharp sting through his heart.

"Maybe in spring," he acquiesces.

They settle back, and he picks up his pipe from where it has fallen to the ground. The tobacco still glows faintly, and he takes a strong drag to keep it alight. Above them, an eagle circles.

 

They pass a few quiet nights that way, sharing stories and smoking contently on the balcony with the eastern lands spread out beneath them, huddling ever closer for warmth as the snow continues to fall. It covers the roofs of Dale and the wounds torn into both city and earth by the battle, and one memorable evening Bofur offer his hat to Bilbo.

"You look ridiculous," he grins, and Bilbo has to agree; the curved flaps fall below his shoulders and he has to twist his eyebrows in impossible ways to peer out from beneath it. It's warm though, and it keeps the cold away as much as Bofur's presence at his side.

 

Bilbo helps Balin move into the enormous librarian's quarters, and offers to stay and organize what remains of the dwarvish texts. He knows a little of the script by now, and Balin alternately teaches him in the mornings over breakfast and despairs over his pronounciation.

 

 

One night, Bilbo finds Bofur sprawled on the bench on the balcony, feet on the parapet and pipe clutched tightly in his hand. The smoke surrounds him, catching the lights from the camp below and enveloping him in a translucent, otherworldly mist.

He almost retreats back inside, but Bofur turns and pats the space by his side. Gingerly, Bilbo sits down and takes out his own pipe. He is loath to disturb the dwarf in those rare moments of peace. Silence spreads between them, occasionally broken by the pipeweed rustling as it burns. Finally, Bofur says, "I loved him, you know," and Bilbo freezes.

"He wasn't my kin, and he wasn't old enough to be my father. We - Bombur and me, and our father, his brother and my cousin, Bifur - we were hungry and cold and didn't have a gold coin between us, and Thorin took us, our whole family, to safety. We were miners, and he helped us build a home."

Bofur stops abruptly, and when Bilbo glances at him, he sees his cheeks glistening. Wordlessly, he shifts to press his thigh against Bofur's.

"I'm not a very important dwarf, Bilbo, and as mining folk we didn't care who was king as long as there was ale and food on the table, and good weed to smoke, but any blind dwarf could see he was a king. He would've been a good king, too."

With a quick motion, Bofur wipes his hand across his face.

"I'm sorry," he says. "you must think I'm a wee stripling, it's been weeks and here I am crying over him."

In response, Bilbo puts an arm around his shoulder, and Bofur leans into him until his nose is buried in the dwarf's hair. He breathes in earth and musk and takes the forgotten pipe out of Bofur's hand.

 

It's been two months since the battle, and Bilbo is gossipping with Dori over tea (Ori has started buying wool from the men, the Mirkwood elves have brought a pretty blond prince to see the mountain and he's promptly insulted Dain, Gandalf was gone _again_ ) when Ori crashes into the room.

"He's leaving!" cries Ori, and his shoulders are shaking.

"Who's leaving?" asks Dori.

"Bifur!" replies Ori. "He's packed and he's taken two ponies out the Eastern Gate!"

Bilbo doesn't wait to hear the rest. He drops his cup and runs out of the room, up the staircase, as fast as his feet can take him, down the dark hall, avoiding a crash with a group of very important looking dwarves, and turns and skids to a stop right in front of Bofur's quarters. He's breathing harshly and has to brush the hair out of his eyes before he opens the door and rushes to the balcony.

There, leaning against the parapet, is Bofur. His head is in his hands, hat crumpled on the bench, and Bilbo approaches him quietly.

"I heard about Bifur. Are you alright?" He hates himself for the stupid question, but what else can he say?

"I'm fine," says Bofur, but when he looks up his eyes are sad. They're dry, though. "Already said goodbye earlier today."

"He's not going very far," says Bilbo quietly. "It can't be more than two days' ride. You'll see him-"

"Of course I'll see him again," says Bofur. "He'll come, or I'll go and visit him. I'd love to see the Iron Hills. But I didn't think he'd leave so soon."

There's misery etched into every line on his face, and Bilbo remembers everyone they've lost, Thorin and Kili and Fili and Bofur's parents, and his own home, and now Bifur. The same thing must have been on Bofur's mind, because he turns to Bilbo and, with a mad look in his eyes, says, "Don't leave."

"What," says Bilbo, stunned.

Bofur grasps his arm and squeezes. "Don't go back. Don't leave, please- " He stops and looks away, clearly embarrassed.

Bilbo stares at the hand on his arm.

"I'm not sure, I - I need more time," he says weakly. Bofur nods and turns back to stare into the distance.

Quietly, Bilbo leaves.

 

His own rooms are cold and dark and facing north, but when he looks out the window he remembers the view from Bofur's balcony, the woods and the mountains and beyond, unseen, the Shire. He misses it, misses the rolling hills and little farms, and above all his home with its round corridors, warm woods and blazing fireplace. Yet, when he focusses, he realizes that the pain of homesickness has dulled over the months as they neared their journey's end, and never flared up again.

 

 

He closes his eyes , puts his hands in his pockets and tries to imagine: a hobbit hole at the foot of the mountain, with a cellar filled with elven and dwarven wines, and waking to see the round coppery roofs of Dale gleaming at sunrise. The soft lapping of the lake (he could learn to swim), the Mirkwood (he could climb), and more than that, his friends only a few staircases and hallways away.

He still feels like a stranger in this dwarven city whenever someone looks at him, the only hobbit east of the mountains, a hand shorter than most dwarves and a good bit frailer. His hands clench, and his fingers brush against the golden ring. He toys with it for a while, never slipping it on, but running his fingertips over it, lost in thought.

But what if he returned? Bilbo sighs. "Bolgers," he mutters, "Boffins, Hornblowers, Proudfoots." He would be even less welcome in the Shire, and the leisurely life seems silly to him now. "Sackville-Bagginses," he says, and shudders, and quickly withdraws his hands from his pockets, letting go of the ring.

 

That evening, he gorges himself on the food Bombur has prepared for them in Bofur's room. Bombur, it seems, has been hurt more than his brother by Bifur's departure. His eyes are still a bit reddened, and the stew tastes bland.

"To Bifur," he toasts before they start the meal, and leaves shortly after.

Bilbo helps to clean the dishes and moves to the balcony, certain that Bofur will follow. He's taken a few drags on his pipe before he feels the dwarf settling down at his side, and smiles.

"Alright," he says. Bofur looks at him inquiringly.

"I'll stay," says Bilbo. The smile he is given in return erases any lingering doubts he had. Bofur embraces him tightly, fingers pressing into his back, beard tickling at Bilbo's temple.

"Alright," whispers the dwarf.

-

Spring is coming fast to the mountain: when Bilbo goes to look at the construction of his new home, he finds daffodils pushing their way out of the ground. The last of the snow has melted and the lake is free of ice; trading has resumed with Esgaroth and the cities that move their goods over the Anduin and through the Mirkwood. He buys carpets, covers and cloth from a trader with sky-blue sails that rode in from the north, and wood from the men near the Mirkwood.

The idea that strangers are building his home still disturbs him, but each time he visits he can find no fault.

"It's just not right," he says to Nori one day, when the dwarf accompanies him to haggle at the market of Esgaroth. "To think that dwarves and men are building a hobbit hole."

"Do you always build them yourself?" asks Nori.

"Yes," replies Bilbo. "They're family homes, and the families build them."

"I've seen your hole in the Shire," says Nori. "If you were to build that yourself, you'd still be laying stones by the time Durin returns."

 

Bofur comes to see him late in the evening when Bilbo is smoothing down the wood of the entrance.

"How far along is it then?" he asks.

Bilbo gestures behind him, at the bare stone walls currently serving as a hallway. "Come in," he says.

The living room is almost done, decorated with wood panelling, and so is the bedroom and the bath. The kitchen is still missing a fireplace ("Gonna fix that up tomorrow," says Bofur, rubbing his hands) and the guest bedroom has no glass windows yet. The pantry is ready, if not stocked, the guest bathroom halfway done, and the study already had a small wooden table.

Bofur leans against a wall and scrutinises the room.

"Looks good," he finally states. "I'd say it needs more stonework, but to each his own. Have you thought about a name yet?"

Bilbo grimaces. It's a raw topic since he can't just name it Bag End, or New Bag End, or Bag End In The East, and his mind comes up empty when he tries to think of other names. He's a Baggins, and he lives at the end of a lane once again, what else can he call it?

"Not yet," he grumbles.

"It'll come to you," says Bofur.

-

Ori paints him a little sign to put on the gate. _Gundu-u-Bashag_ , it says, and Ori explains, embarrassed, "I know you haven't named it yet, so this just says-"

"Hobbit-Hole," Bilbo finishes, eyes quickly running over the letters. He's played with those very words in his head when Balin taught them to him.

"It's lovely," he smiles at Ori, and Ori proudly smiles back.

 

 

For the official hobbit hole housewarming, Gandalf returns. The party is in well underway, Gloin has even brought his wife and son.

('She does have a fine beard', thinks Bilbo, and brushes his fingers against his chin. He'd attempted to grow one once, when he was younger, but hobbits are not renowned for their beards and his pitiful attempt had been shaved off rather quickly.)

Nori and Ori are deep in their cups and many songs have been sung when the wizard knocks on the door.

"Good evening, Bilbo," he says, eyes twinkling.

"Yes, it is," replies Bilbo.

He lights fireworks on the porch: golden blossoms and green trees that bloom into pure, sparkling silver and when the last of the fires and stars has died away, he hands over a bag the size of Bilbo's head.

"Longbottom Leaf!" cries Bilbo, burying his nose in the fragrant satchel. "And Old Toby, and Southern Star! Thank you." He hugs the wizard.

"Share! Share!" shouts Nori. Bilbo clutches the bag tightly. "Over my dead body," he laughs, "who knows how long this'll have to last me?"

Gandalf chuckles. "I'm sure I'll find some business to take care of here now and then. Or rather, business shall find me."

-

It is late when the company disbands, Ori, Nori and Dori leaving first, the two elder dwarves supporting the youngest who is still drunkenly humming _the world was fair in Durin's day_.

Gloin leaves after some prompting from his wife, who has matched him mug for mug but is now balancing a sleeping Gimli in her arms. Dwalin and Balin join them, deep in discussion, after thanking Bilbo for the feast.

Oin is the next to leave, and runs his fingers over the little wall separating the hobbit's garden from the path.

"If you need any help expanding that hole, come and call me," he says. "There's still some room to go east."

"Thank you," Bilbo says politely, and shakes his hand goodbye.

Bombur gives Bofur a sharp look before rising and tugging Bifur up.

"Goodnight, Bilbo," he says, "remember to come by tomorrow and pick up the chairs."

Bilbo waves them off, and sits back down.

Finally Bofur stands, faltering a little as the alcohol obviously rushes to his head. Bilbo meets his eyes over the fire.

"Your hair looks a state," he jokes, and Bofur self-consciously touches his head, worrying the tips of the braids with his fingers.

"Well, help an old dwarf out, then," he commands and unravels the braids. He settles right in front of Bilbo, knees brushing against the hobbit's, and dips his head.

Hesitantly, Bilbo reaches out. His fingers slip through Bofur's hair, momentarily distracted by the softness, and he has to remind himself that he has been given a task. Carefully, he separates three locks and begins. He works quietly and cautiously, not wanting to cause Bofur any pain. But the hair is silky and not tangled, and when he's finished with one side, he wordlessly tugs at Bofur's shoulder and the dwarf turns his head.

Now that he's less nervous about it, he can appreciate the silver strands gliding over his fingers and twisting into black, curling around the back of Bofur's neck. When he is finished, he lets his hands fall to Bofur's shoulders.

"Thank you," murmurs Bofur, and tilts his head to rest it against Bilbo's, foreheads gently touching. Bilbo is afraid to breathe, his fingers are tingling where they rest against the nape of Bofur's neck. An eternity passes in which no word is spoken, they are frozen in time right there, sitting on Bilbo's new front-porch with the embers glowing in the grass and occasionally rising like fireflies.

Finally, Bofur sighs and turns away with a quick pat on Bilbo's arm.

"Had a bit too much of your ale," he says apologetically, and adds, "Don't mind if I take the guest room, do you?"

"No, of course not," stammers Bilbo.

 

They have breakfast together in Bilbo's new kitchen, and if he blushes when his eyes fall on Bofur's braids, well, Bofur doesn't notice.

 

 

It's entirely uneconomical, thinks Bilbo a few weeks later, that he should even have such a lavishly decorated and large hobbit hole when he spends most of his time in Bofur's rooms. He can count the times he's been in his own, new home for more than an hour this past fortnight on one hand. Some of his books have migrated to Bofur's living room, along with a spare toothbrush and the cloak Dwalin gave him when they set out so long ago from the Shire. A comfortable sofa serves well as a bed when they talk late into the night and Bilbo is just too tired to make it back down to his hole.

He sends word for some of his possessions to be sent from the Shire. He is careful to include a letter in his own writing, and tells the elves (distant cousins of Lord Elrond, if he understood correctly) to make certains to lock the doors on their departure. There's a myriad of papers, maps, letters, books and heirlooms he wants, along with his good silver, clothes, candlesticks, carpets, and more.

By the time they finish reading his list, both look rather put out, but Bilbo reminds them of the elves' promise.

There is still so much to do. They repair a set of rooms just below the royal apartment, with giant windows made of coloured glass, and Ori claims the one facing south towards the city and the lake and orders paint from a trader from Rhûn.

Bilbo turns his 'burglary' talent to good use and continues to clear out the rooms that are too ruined to repair, stripping them of anything of value to be sorted out later by the king's builders.

In the mornings, Balin still attempts to teach him the language of the dwarves and lets him browse the library, but the evenings are spent with Bofur (and occasionally Bombur) on the balcony.

-

They've erected memorial stones to those fallen in the battle; Bilbo has seen them from afar, but now, on the balcony, he can make out individual ones.

"There's Kili, and Fili beside him," says Bofur softly. His fingers point to two grey grey stones a little off to the side. They're twisted, arching toward each other in a way that reminds Bilbo of tree branches.

"Thorin?" he asks quietly.

"Nah, a king gets a memorial of his own," Bofur replies. "It won't be out on the battlefield."

They contemplate that for a moment, then Bofur looks at Bilbo.

"He'd have hated it," he snorts.

"Come back and tore it out himself," agrees Bilbo.

He has to tug Bofur back inside later. The dwarf is strangely reluctant to turn away from the view, but although summer is fast approaching, the nights are still cool.

 

Then, one clear May day Bilbo rushes into Bofur's rooms.

"You need to help me!" he says, panicked. "They're sending my nephew to live with me, he's not even out of his teens, and they're sending him off to the East."

"Don't fret," laughs Bofur, "we'll find a place for the little one. Or we'll build one."

To his credit (and Bilbo will forever be grateful for this), he doesn't ask whether there isn't a more suited hobbit living a little closer who can take care of the boy. He merely offers suggestions and reassures Bilbo when he despairs over his lack of child-rearing knowledge.

It is only much later, when they are sitting on the balcony and Bilbo has calmed, that he says, in his most innocent tone, "So he's a close relative of yours then?"

Bilbo, who sees through the words immediately, can't find it in him to be angry. After all, it is practically unheard of for a hobbit to leave the Shire of his own volition; to be forced out is unthinkable.

"A nephew on the Took side. I suppose that is why they're sending him here, Tooks are seen as rather... improper by nature, and prone to adventuring and causing commotion. I saw the lad before we left for the mountain and he was a troublemaker back then."

"Much like you?" grins Bofur, and Bilbo shakes his head. "Too much like me."

"I've wanted children," Bofur confides softly. "Never thought I'd have the chance, certainly not before we got the mountain back, and not after, either."

"Why not?" asks Bilbo. "You're still young, and there's bound to be a pretty dwarf lady who'd make you happy."

"Aye," replies Bofur with a sad smile, "she'll only have to talk me off this balcony every few days or so."

 

 

"I can't do this," says Bilbo blankly. He's staring a dwarven text on child-rearing, the letters swimming before his eyes.

 _To cut or not: the first beard_ , the chapter titles say, and _When it's time for the axe_.

He wishes he had paid more attention when his relatives had told him of bringing up their children. Still, the lad is thirteen, he'll be old enough to manage on his own for the most part.

"The important thing is to keep him out of trouble," agrees Bofur. "The forest is fine if he doesn't go too far in, and Dale'll be a welcome distraction, but you shouldn't let him go to the lake by himself."

Bilbo shudders.

"His parents drowned, I doubt he'll have much taste for water," he says.

Bofur takes the book from his hands and places a comforting hand on his back.

"You'll do fine," he assures the nervous hobbit. "And I'll take care of him as well, and the other will help too."

Bilbo relaxes into his touch.

"I remember myself at thirteen," he says. "I was climbing trees as if the ground could swallow me at any moment, and caused my dad no small amount of trouble. My mother encouraged me though," he adds, lost in memories. "She'd climb with me, and race me to the Brandywine, and teach me how to catch rabbits."

Bofur smiles kindly. "Seems like your mother had her head on right." Then he hesitates.

"Are you sure there's no hobbit lass wanting to come help you?" he inquires casually.

Bilbo snorts. "A hobbit, leaving the Shire? I doubt it. And you said you'd help." He turns beseeching eyes on Bofur.

"I'm no mother though," he says. "Never known mine. She died before she could teach me to braid my hair."

"Hey," says Bilbo softly, and cups his cheek, "you turned out alright."

"Better than alright, I hope," replies Bofur. His eyes gleam in the firelight, and Bilbo hold his breath as they stray to his mouth. He leans in a little, swaying on the tips of his toes, when suddenly, the door is thrown open. He steps back quickly, averting his eyes. What had he been thinking?

"They're here!" cries Ori, and stops to take in their faces. Bilbo knows he's flushed, and he doesn't dare look at Bofur, but judging by Ori's expression he was not imagining the tense moment that had just passed.

"Who's here?" he asks.

Ori visibly gathers himself.

"The elves, and the little hobbit," he chimes, "How old is he anyway? I could have mistaken him for a tiny dwarfling."

"Thirteen," calls Bilbo, already on his way through the door. He hastens down to the Main Gate, Bofur running behind him.

There, in a cart drawn by a hazel-coloured mare, sits his nephew, wide-eyed and grinning. He has his mother's eyes, thinks Bilbo, and is taken aback by their brightness. Then he steps down and lifts him out of the cart.

"Frodo," he sighs happily. "My dear boy, I am ever so glad to see you."

-

For a while, Bilbo moves back into his hobbit hole. Frodo delights in the strange blend of hobbit and dwarven design, and babbles about his journey ("I saw trolls, uncle Bilbo! Three of them, stone trolls! And we saw a man who had ponies, and they brought us breakfast!"). When he falls asleep the first night, Bilbo wearily slumps on the bench by the porch and lights his pipe. He barely has to wait before a head pokes around the wall.

"Is it safe?" asks Bofur merrily.

"Quite safe, for now. Unless he remembers another troll or elf he met on the road," replies Bilbo.

Bofur sits down at his side. "It'll make for good bedtime stories," he says. "I've found a few toys from a nursery, if he's not too old for them."

"If they're dwarven toys, he'll play with them anyway," mutters Bilbo. "I'll take him to see Balin tomorrow, that will keep them both occupied for the morning."

"You've a good lad," muses Bofur.

A proud smile steals onto Bilbo's face. "He's a Took through and through." His smile turns thoughtful. "Although I suppose the Baggins name has been tainted similarly by now."

"A real Baggins, then," says Bofur. "He'll be happy here."

"Yes," says Bilbo softly, "as will I."

 

 

Over the next days, Bilbo learns a lot more about child-rearing than he ever thought he would.

"Uncle Bilbo!" Frodo would cry, "Look what Dwalin showed me!" And then he'd have to take the tiny axe firmly away from him and go and have a few words with the old dwarf.

"Here uncle Bilbo, that's from the statue!" he'd say, and proudly present a wriggling caterpillar.

"Which statue?" asks Bilbo, and Frodo replies, "The one at the gate! I went all the way to the top."  
And then he'd have to explain very carefully about broken bones, and how dwarves set them.

On a sunny day in June, he is called to Esgaroth by a trader to inspect some Shire tobacco as a favour, and rushes to find Bofur.

"Could you take care of Frodo until tomorrow?" he asks when he finds the dwarf cleaning his sword.

Bofur's eyes light up. "'Course I can. I'll show him how to set traps."

Relieved, Bilbo gathers his pack and sets out.

-

When he returns, neither Frodo nor Bofur are in the hobbit hole. They're not in Bofur's rooms either, and he has to knock on Bombur's door and quell his anxiety.

"Have you seen my nephew and your brother?" he asks without bothering with so much as a 'Good Morning'.

"They're by the woods, I think," replies Bombur, "they're catching lunch."

 

The woods are bathed in sunlight, stray rays filtering through the canopy by the edge. Bofur and Frodo are sitting quietly near a giant pine tree, staring at the ground. As Bilbo comes closer, he can see a tangle of leather straps.

"We're building a trap!" says Frodo happily, and hugs him. "Bofur's teaching me to catch deer!"

"Nothing quite as big," chuckles Bofur. "I thought we'd start with hares." He stands up and brushes the grass from his pants. "there now, go and set some of them along the trees, will you?" he tells Frodo, and the boy runs off.

"He's giving me grey hair, I swear," sighs Bilbo.

"Nah, you're not greying," answers Bofur. "It's growing long though." He levels a critical gaze at Bilbo's hair, who touches it self-consciously. Bofur is right, he realizes, it's been growing ever since he left the Shire. The locks are tumbling below his shoulders now.

"Do you have a - a clip, or something," he stammers.

Bofur's eyes soften. "Let me braid it for you," he says gently.

Bilbo nods jerkily.

He sits down on the grass, knees awkwardly bent at the knees, and Bofur kneels in front of him. Warm hands reach into his hair and he ducks his head and fixes his eyes on the ground between them, on the grassy patches on Bofur's pants.

Bofur combs through the locks with his fingers before tugging at the strands and interleaving them. He moves slowly, twisting the braid behind Bilbo's ear and down to his neck, and Bilbo bends his head further. He can hear his own breaths, far too loud and harsh in his ears, and the brush of Bofur's fingers. Their foreheads nearly touch, but then the braid is woven around and behind the other ear, and up to his temple. He keeps his head down regardless, relaxing into the strokes of the dwarf's fingers. Something is pinned to the top of his head close to his forehead, and he looks up.

"There now," breathes Bofur. His hands cup Bilbo's face, thumb rubbing the skin. And Bilbo can't help it, he reaches out and tugs Bofur forward to meet his mouth, warm and soft against his lips.

They kiss languidly, unhurried, Bofur's whiskers brushing against his cheeks and chin. He leans closer, shifting his legs until he's astride Bofur, heat seeping into his skin even through their clothes.

 

When he looks into the mirror the evening before bed, he sees that Bofur has woven his hair into a golden crown.

 

One day, Bilbo swears. One day he'll leave the ring to Frodo, and the hobbit hole under the mountain. He doesn't really need it anyway.


End file.
